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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23393221">Blame It On The Falling Sky</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott'>Eisenschrott</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars Original Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Exhaustion, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:02:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,379</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23393221</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The night after a bloody battle, a moment of respite.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Firmus Piett/Maximilian Veers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Blame It On The Falling Sky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Title from <em>Black Star</em> by Radiohead.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The distance between the officers’ mess hall and the nearest turbolift is two hundred meters. The turbolift ride entails standing upright for six standard minutes, excluding waiting time if all the lifts are occupied. The final stretch, from the turbolifts to the admiral’s quarters, is three hundred eighty six meters.</p><p>On nights like this, in which Firmus’ stomach tosses and turns for the nutrients that theoretically are present in the mess hall protein soup and quickbread, it is vital to keep track of time and distances, to ration strength, to count the excruciating footsteps and convert them into meters, into minutes. Make them measurable, so that they are manageable.</p><p>Inside his trousers pocket, the comlink is a thermal detonator threatening to blow up at any given moment. Should it beep now, should any matter recall the admiral to the bridge, Firmus would have a hard time not screaming. Thank Boonta, the Force and all the galaxy’s merciful deities, it stays silent.</p><p>Firmus makes it to his quarters, his legs aching and swollen inside his boots, knees and ankles creaking like under-lubricated droid parts. His spine is on fire, his shoulders stiff; the chilly sheen of sweat that terror has spread over his skin under the uniform, for nearly the whole time he’s stood ramrod-straight on the bridge, has by now seeped deep within his muscles.</p><p>The door slides closed behind him. He can surrender himself to fatigue. His vision flickers off and on, his steps falter. One last effort—the bed is right there, behind the curtain…</p><p>His knees hit the floor first. It hurts, he yelps, but his arms barely have either the strength or speed to shoot up and shield his upper body upon impact. He falls on his face, pain blooms like a liquid explosion from his right cheek and on the inside of it; he tastes blood under his teeth, a thumping noise like footsteps fills his ears.</p><p>“Firmus!”</p><p>His head shoots up—<em>intruder, danger, defend, you’re weak, run</em>—and he blinks back a dawning darkness, unrelated to the cabin lights, to make out Max running towards him. His cap is off; the tunic, unbuttoned. Firmus can see the white of his undershirt.</p><p>“Are you ill?” asks Max as he crouches by him, his large frame blocking out the light.</p><p>Strong arms wind behind Firmus’ back, and he relaxes—more like, <em>slumps</em> into them, blissful to forget that his body has a mass and a weight in the ship’s artificial gravity. “I’m fine.” He feels a hand on his forehead. “I’m fine. Just haven’t had enough caf...”</p><p>“You daft son of a Hutt, you could’ve broken your nose!”</p><p>The hand delicately touches where his cheek is hottest, stinging. Firmus winces.</p><p>“The bruise isn’t going to look pretty, either.” Max lets out a sigh and counts backwards from three under his breath, then lifts Firmus off the floor, turning him ‘round so he’s lying face-up in Max’s arms, limbs dangling, head swimming.</p><p>A hyperaware prey’s animal instinct jolts him awake at the feeling of digits on his chest, on his unprotected neck. He opens his eyes in a rush of blood to his head, but it is just Max, a frown and a bacta-lined suture on his face, unbuttoning his tunic and then unbuckling his belt. Firmus realizes he’s now lying supine on the bed, with Max sitting by his side.</p><p>“I’m taking your boots off next,” says Max. “Hold fast.”</p><p>There is no way in the nine hells Firmus can <em>hold fast</em>, right now; his arms have the same consistence as the mess hall soup, and the weight of proton torpedoes. Undeterred, Max grabs his right foot, raises it and gives a tug. Pain whiplashes across Firmus’ body, his mouth gapes in a wordless cry. At the second pull, he lets out a scream and his leg thrashes like a chopped-off lizard tail.</p><p>“Stay still, you tosspot!” Max shields his wounded face with his fist, then catches Firmus’ foot at the ankle, putting actual strength into it. That makes Firmus stop, and stare at him. Not pain, even if it still hurts, but fear.</p><p>Max’s voice softens, “Stay still, Firmus. We need to get your paws out of these traps.”</p><p>“Haven’t taken my boots off since… two rotations  ago.”</p><p>“I know. It’s like wearing carbonite blocks.” Max strokes his ankle, bound in tight synthleather. “And your legs swell over time. I’m sorry, this is going to hurt a bit.”</p><p>Firmus takes a deep breath, lies back and clutches onto the bedcover.</p><p>At first, Max tries to be gentle, with slow, minimal pulling. It still feels like the synthleather has fused with Firmus’ flesh, and his aching, throbbing foot does not budge a millimeter. Firmus grits his teeth, forgets to breathe, wills his body not to kick back at the pain ripping through his leg.</p><p>When the boot comes off, he only notices because Max puts his foot down and catches the other. This time, Firmus cries out at every pull. Max doesn’t bother with gentleness anymore, and the ordeal is faster. Even if it hurts like a Huttfucker.</p><p>“Done!” Max’s voice cuts across the haze of pain and the groaning, panting noises Firmus is still making. “It’s going to get better now, old boy.”</p><p>“Blast you,” it escapes Firmus’ mouth, the very taste of the words bitterer than caf grounds.</p><p>“You’re welcome, but I could do without being blasted again for today.”</p><p>“What?” Firmus shakily wipes tears off his eyes and takes a better look at Max, still sitting on the bedside with his swollen left foot in his lap, rubbing slow circles through a synthcotton sock so sweaty it is almost transparent. Firmus squints. The undershirt… “Max, you were <em>hit</em>?”</p><p>“By a Maad-21 anti-personnel cannon. The Rebels had a brigade’s worth of retrofitted AT-TEs, and their commander knew how to use them.” Max puts Firmus’ foot down on the mattress and gazes down at the bandage that covers his chest from the sternum to just above the navel.</p><p>“I… I read that in the reports.” Firmus tries to swallow, but his throat stays dry, his voice feeble. “But they didn’t mention you were injured.”</p><p>“It’s nothing to worry about. My cuirass was burned to a crisp, but it saved me.”</p><p>“Should you be out of the medbay so soon?”</p><p>“I was discharged as quickly as the medidroid could patch me back up. My staff officers did an excellent job keeping the Thundering Herd in order while I was under the laser-knife, didn’t they? You wouldn’t even notice I was knocked out.”</p><p>Firmus’ heart has been racing for most of the past seventy-two standard hours, and it is as tired as any muscle in his body; nevertheless, it finds the strength to speed up its beat again. “I <em>would</em> have, eventually.”</p><p>Max is silent for a few seconds, his expression growing more somber. “I’m fine, sailor,” he says at last, staring Firmus in the eye.</p><p>“Come over here,” Firmus replies, barely louder than a whisper.</p><p>Max draws up his still-booted right leg to his knee, and sets out to pulling his own boot. His upper body stays more rigid than it’s comfortable for the purpose, his lips mash into a thin, tight line as he tugs the boot off, then the next. His motions are slow, careful, and his mouth twitches as he lowers himself on his back next to Firmus.</p><p>It must have hurt, too, to carry a dead-beat admiral in his arms and help him out of the most stubborn part of his clothes. Once the admiral regains some energies, he ought to talk to the general about toning his hero complex down, at least outside of the battlefield.</p><p>For now, all Firmus can do is grope for Max’s right hand, hold it tight between his and lay it over his chest.</p><p>“Does your face hurt?” Max asks, still entirely too awake.</p><p>“Nope,” Firmus lies, aware again of the bruise, where the pain has settled into a swollen circle and radiates to the eye socket above. “Does yours?”</p><p>“Of bloody course. I hate stitches.”</p><p>“Doesn’t it hurt more if you keep talking?”</p><p>“Not really.” He squeezes Firmus’ hands back. “Apologies for sneaking into your quarters, by the way. Your bed is far more comfortable than mine.”</p><p>Letting his eyelids drop, Firmus smiles. “That is undeniable, and your apologies are...”</p><p><em>—accepted, Captain Needa</em>.</p><p>The room temperature feels like it has dropped a few degrees closer to the space void outside the <em>Executor</em>. Firmus shudders.</p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p>“…Nothing.”</p><p>A brief silence follows; Firmus almost believes Max has pretended to buy the lie. But it does not surprise him when, instead, the stubborn old buckethead renews the assault. “I know it’s been a tough time for you vac-heads, too.”</p><p>Maybe, now, Max expects a quip about the Navy <em>always</em> having a tough time helping the dirtside contingents out. However, Firmus’ reserve of sarcasm is depleted. “It has.”</p><p>“Want to talk?”</p><p>“Hells, no.”</p><p>“Fine.” Max shifts on the mattress, closer to Firmus, who rolls onto his left side to face him. His icy-cold feet burrow between Max’s legs, craving for warmth. Max’s usual, familiar smell is covered up by the citrusy tang of bacta; so close, its intensity makes the inside of Firmus’ nose itch.</p><p>“How long can you stay?” asks Firmus.</p><p>“The whole night cycle.”</p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p>“First briefing tomorrow is at 7:00, but sod it, I’d rather sleep here. I doubt Covell or Tantor will care to ask, but if they do, we’ve been reviewing battle reports all night.”</p><p>“Hm-hm.”</p><p>This time, Max does not break the ensuing silence. Firmus registers, barely, the feather-light pressure of lips on his forehead, as his mind recedes into a noisy, agitated darkness. All the fears he has repressed and shoved aside in the light of day cycle, buried deep under the urgency of action—they creep back to the surface.</p><p>
  <em>This was a resupply stopover—just a routine resupply stopover. Why has it all come to this?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How damn many Rebels are here?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They just won’t stop attacking—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The face of Lieutenant-Commander Ree as she gapes up from the crew pit, the flat-toned plea in her voice. “Admiral, at this rate our losses in the fighter squadrons will rise to 96% per wave.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And the Rebels still attack.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This is worse than Hoth, worse than the asteroid field. Far worse, it dawns on the crew from hour to hour. Like fighting the battle of Scarif with only one ship.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Pirate ships on the Rebel side, too—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Lord Vader’s starfighter is down. If the battle is lost, Lord Vader will kill him. If Lord Vader is killed, punishment will—the Emperor himself will—</em>
</p><p>He shivers awake; in his retinas burns the red glow of a lightsaber, hacking and slashing through the command bridge of a pirate ship, in his ears ring the blaster bolts and the screams from the live audio feed. His skin is cold and clammy.</p><p>His quarters are so quiet he has trouble believing such a silence could still exists, after the battle. Except for the near-imperceptible, reassuring whirr of the <em>Executor</em>’s hyperspace engines, and Max’s very perceptible snoring.</p><p>Firmus props himself on his left elbow and gazes at him, squinting until his vision has adjusted again to light and sight. Max’s bandaged chest rises and falls slowly, in the rhythm of a deep, dreamless sleep. That is a genuine relief; the ground forces have been through their fair share of hell, and Max does not need to revisit it in his sleep now. Given how violently Max can jerk about when having nightmares, it would be a physical danger for both of them.</p><p>He looks at the chrono on the nightstand. Then at Max’s face, the suture running from the outer corner of his left eyebrow to millimeters away from the ear. It is just beginning to fade into the skin; if you know where to look, the scar can always be spotted, even with the best anti-cicatrizing stitches.</p><p>One aching limb at a time, Firmus shifts to a sitting position. He flexes his feet and ankles, in a crackle of popping phalanges; removing his boots has been a game-changer indeed. Still, his every joint from toes to hips creak and groan when he stands up, hoisting his own weight as carefully as he can. At least the bruise on his cheek has receded to no more than an unpleasant sensation of swelling, that can be ignored.</p><p>On his limping way to the comm console, Firmus notices his cap lying on the floor, in front of the door. Outraged lower limbs notwithstanding, he makes a detour to fetch it; the fabric on the inside reeks of stale smell. Fortunately, the laundry chute is close to the comm console and he can consign the cap to a thorough cleaning before he turns the ship intranet on.</p><p>The unread new messages in his inbox are by the dozen, but he ignores them and sends a brief, terse communiqué to the Army contingent’s  command staff: General Veers will not be considered fit for duty until 12:00. Admiral’s direct order.</p><p>Before he can be tempted to get to work, Firmus turns the console off; his personal comlink follows suit on the desk, and the only freq that remains allowed to contact it is Lord Vader’s.</p><p>He regards Max sleeping on the bed, safe for now, and longs for a smoke. He can’t remember exactly when he had his last cigarette; smoking is forbidden on the bridge, so he’s had to make do with a few quick drags on the way to the ‘fresher and back, during the few moments of lull the battle spared.</p><p>He hobbles back to the bed, sits down on the mattress, opens the nightstand drawer as quietly as the squeak of the sliders allows. He makes a mental note to wax them, while being glad Max has never accidentally broken the jerry-built fleet-issue piece of furniture by pulling the drawer too hard in a frantic search for the lube can.</p><p>He pulls out an unopened cig pack and a lighter. The ashtray is at its usual place by the chrono, which reads 4:35 IST. The snap of the lighter startles Firmus a little in the snoring-filled silence, but Max doesn’t even stir.</p><p>He lights up the cigarette, breathes in, breathes out. Gently prickling bliss in blueish smoke curls. He relaxes into the motions and the even, deep breaths, in the taste of the smoke.</p><p>Then, as the cig is almost spent, Max’s content snoring sputters and he stirs on the mattress. Without thinking, feeling guilty the Force only knows why, Firmus mashes the cigarette into the ashtray.</p><p>Max’s hand, large and heavy, hooks his hip. “Good morning, sailor.”</p><p>“It isn’t morning yet.”</p><p>“What time is it?” Max peers blearily at the chrono. “I better get going—”</p><p>“You aren’t <em>going</em> anywhere, General. I countermanded your return to service.”</p><p>A more awake look sets on Firmus. “Sorry, you did what?”</p><p>“Until 12:00, and yes, I have taken into account the fact that your staff officers need you back as soon as possible. But <em>you</em> need to rest, berk.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“Are you contesting my order, General?”</p><p>Max holds his stare for a moment, then lowers his head back on the pillow with an exasperated sigh. “No, sir.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>“It isn’t necessary, though. I’m fine. Healing already.”</p><p>“And you will be even finer if you rest more.”</p><p>“You worry too much, sailor. I’m used to getting shot, unlike you fleet toffs.” His fingertips caress Firmus’ side; it would tickle, weren’t it for the thick fabric of Firmus’ uniform in the way.</p><p>“We <em>do</em> risk our life and limb, too,” the reply comes off as more acerbic than Firmus intended.</p><p>Max’s hand stops.</p><p><em>Force, no, please, not an argument now</em>.</p><p>The serious, intent look Max gives him doesn’t bode very well, but he isn’t angry. Yet. “Has Lord Vader taken issue with something you did?”</p><p>Firmus blinks. The surprise is but a moment; a heartbeat later, anxiety sets in, its burdensome constriction familiar like his own boots after too many hours of wearing them. “Not as far as I know.” He pauses. “The garrison commander, however… Rebel activity on this scale does not crop up out of the blue; whatever warning signs she had, she ignored them and we all paid the price.”</p><p>“So he executed her?”</p><p>“She ate a blaster first. Her aide is now the provisional governor. You should have seen her face when Lord Vader appointed her over the comm channel.”</p><p>“Pissing herself?”</p><p>“Smiling from ear to ear. At least, when Admiral Ozzel was terminated, <em>I</em> had the decency not to grin.”</p><p>“Was that because you were scared?”</p><p>Firmus jolts, as if there were a live wire in the mattress and it had just stung him. He shoots Max a wary look, to which the general returns with the same solemn, silent waiting. Maybe an argument would have been easier, after all. “Fear is physiological,” Firmus just says. “What matters is that I conquered it well enough to carry on my duty.”</p><p>“I was never afraid for myself, you know? Not even when blood got all over my face and I couldn’t see a kriffing thing.” Max brushes a lock of his hair off of the corner of the suture. “But thinking you might be blamed for this poodoo-show and made to pay for it…” He closes his eyes, exhales forcefully from his nose like he is forcing back an urge to cry. “I couldn’t stop agonizing over it until I lost consciousness.”</p><p>“That was just panic and…” Firmus clears his throat. It is awful and immoral, alright, but it stokes a glowing ember in his heart that Max cares this much, hurts this much for him. “—and shock, playing tricks on your mind. Lord Vader did let me live after Bespin, didn’t he?”</p><p>“I lost four stormtrooper battalions in two standard hours, just to cross a speeder parking lot.” Max’s voice dips at each word, until only a mutter remains. “You stay alive, Firmus. Do it for me.”</p><p>Smiling even though (or, precisely why) Max isn’t watching him, Firmus runs his knuckles over Max’s unwounded cheek, the skin hot with sunlight and bristly with stubble. “I expect the same of you, General.”</p><p>Max cracks a greenish, misty sliver of his eyes open. “We’re both asking for the moons of Iego, aren’t we?”</p><p><em>Yes, we are</em>. Firmus can’t bring himself to say it out loud. But the answer lingers in the recycled air over them, even unspoken. He wants another cigarette.</p><p>“Your hand is cold,” Max says. “Are you?”</p><p>“Oh—sorry.” Firmus retreats his hand, and of course he <em>is</em> feeling cold.</p><p>Max sits up, stiffly but with no apparent pain. He takes off his tunic, pulls the blanket down and tucks himself underneath. “Come over here.”</p><p>Well, the cigarette can wait. Firmus removes his own tunic and gloves, quickly folds the clothes and puts them on the nightstand, and lies down next to Max, who drapes the blanket over both of them. Muffled up to his nose, enfolded by an arm around his waist, Firmus is pressed to Max’s chest; the bandages rustle lightly between their bodies.</p><p>“Careful,” he says. “Your wounds might—”</p><p>“Shh. Don’t worry. I told you, I’m healing.”</p><p>Far be it from Firmus to doubt the Imperial MedCorps’ adeptness at treatment,  at least not when the level of care is meant for a general whom Lord Vader considers useful. It’s just that he would <em>hate</em> it if Max bled all over his bed, and the one quiet night cycle they can spend together ended with the dirt-pounder on a hovergurney rushing to the medbay. And MedCorps orderlies feeding General Veers in Admiral Piett’s bed to the rumor mill. He shifts a few safe centimeters away from Max, still close enough to tilt his head on the pillow and kiss him on the mouth.</p><p>“Goodnight, sailor,” Max rumbles against his lips. His eyes flutter shut.</p><p>Beneath the blanket, the space between them has warmed up already; the leaden ache in Firmus’ legs begins to melt away.</p><p>“Lights out,” says Firmus, closing his eyes before the room goes dark.</p>
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